


We Were Reaching in The Dark

by azure7539



Series: Omega!Bond [1]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Omega Verse, a bit of lemon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 18:10:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15394485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azure7539/pseuds/azure7539
Summary: “Hey.”Bond looks up to see Ronson quirk a small smile at him, the gentle twitch of it still that one factor that surprises Bond even now.“Hey,” Bond replies in kind and takes his time to walk up to where Ronson is waiting for him just at the foot of the stairs. “Dinner?” He nods at the bag in Ronson’s hand as they begin heading back to their rooms.“Yeah. Apparently, it’s my turn to fetch takeaways tonight.”





	We Were Reaching in The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you [Castillon02](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Castillon02/pseuds/Castillon02) for beta-ing this for me. You're the best <3

Ronson is one of the more surprisingly mild-tempered agents that Bond has ever met and worked with. The first time they met was also during a team mission in Bulgaria wherein Ronson was still a junior agent just starting out in the field, and Bond had been advancing up the ladder for nearly three years already.

It was that sort of polite calmness about him that initially rubbed at Bond’s nerves the wrong way. The fact that Ronson was a neutral Beta usually tended to work to his benefits, but at the same time, Bond didn’t think Ronson had the razor sharpness and brutal agility fieldwork required—not that many people did anyway ( _it’s the same reason why so many of them never make it._ )

But as with many things (because Bond is never too stubborn to accept his mistake or misjudgment), Bond changed his mind after seeing Ronson chase after one of their targets and jump from rooftop to rooftop without an ounce of hesitation in his step, even when his calculation missed by an inch or so, causing him to slip and fall, nearly tumbling to his death. In these respects, he was just as reckless as Bond, and by the end of that mission, Bond came out with new found respect for this junior agent, who was more calm, quiet, and level-headed than most others he had encountered. Ronson’s intuition and demeanor might not have been the sharpest, true, but he was competent and patient, and Bond supposed he wouldn’t mind working with him again.

His prediction was as follows: given a few more years of experience, Ronson could lead a team of his own well enough (even Alphas would fall in line as long as he knew where and when to assert his dominance), and perhaps, should he so choose, move on from senior agent to Double-O status.

And so, here they are. This time in Istanbul instead of Bulgaria, and Ronson really _is_ leading his own professional team into this. (He steadfastly remained a senior operative without moving further up the ladder, and Bond perfectly understood and respected him for this decision.) They have managed to track down the missing hard drive, and tomorrow will be the final phase of the assignment: interception and retrieval. Ronson and his team, having already been embedded here for some time with intimate working knowledge of the area’s layout, will be responsible for leading the initial interception. Once the hard drive is in their possession, Bond will step in to create a diversion for the team to escape, retreat back to their designated safe house, and wait for a rendezvous with Bond to transfer the hard drive over.

The plan is pretty straightforward, and Bond memorizes the smaller, less known (but definitely more advantageous) routes Ronson points out to him without much qualm.

It’s how seemingly easy this is turning out to be that sinks its teeth into the back of Bond’s mind and refuses to let go, gnawing away like one hungry little mouse that he just can’t seem to catch. But, at the same time, Bond honestly isn’t entirely sure if this is not just him growing a little sick of the irritating humidity that clings to his person like a second set of skin, sweaty and trapping in all unnecessary heat.

“Hey.”

Bond looks up to see Ronson quirk a small smile at him, the gentle twitch of it still that one factor that surprises Bond even now ( _because field agents aren’t supposed to be gentle, and Bond isn’t the kind of person that people try and be gentle to anyway—he doesn’t expect it, and there’s nothing about him to warrant that kind of special treatment either_ ).

“Hey,” Bond replies in kind and takes his time to walk up to where Ronson is waiting for him just at the foot of the stairs. “Dinner?” He nods at the bag in Ronson’s hand as they begin heading back to their rooms.

“Yeah. Apparently, it’s my turn to fetch takeaways tonight.” The bag in Ronson’s grip swings gently at this, following the movement of his wrist. “I took the liberty of ordering something for you, too. I hope you don’t mind.” He turns to shoot Bond a look that is mostly quizzical with an apologetic undertone, as though sorry that he didn’t ask first for some opinion or approval.

“Not at all.” Bond shakes his head. “Who can say no to free food?”

And Ronson grins—it’s the sort of spontaneous, unguarded expression that catches at Bond’s own senses, nuzzling in like a soft whisper that is both a promise and nothing at the same time.

 

 

 

Bond blinks and the soft press of Ronson’s lips against his own is both startling in the comfort it provides and undemanding in all its gentle weight, and it’s now that Bond dimly registers that it’s Ronson who has leant over the table and kissed him.

The spices from the food they have just eaten are potent on their tongues, but it doesn’t seem to be an issue right then because, before Bond can think better of it, he’s already kissing back, the push and pull a cool intensity that builds up by the layer, gradual and almost tantalizing. Ronson’s hand reaches up and cups his jaw, fingertips caressing along the unyielding line of bone before slipping into Bond’s hairline, digging in with blunt nails grazing over the scalp.

They were eating. Ronson had bought Bond Turkish poached eggs, and even though Bond knew he should be more careful than this, he couldn’t catch the small laugh that bubbled up his throat and lurched forward without warning at the clumsy, too fast, and rather nervous explanation that Ronson gave him.

( _“It’s Turkish poached eggs, I… I figured you would… Well, you seem to like eggs? You tend to eat them last, and at first I thought you just didn’t like them, but then you always finished everything slowly if you have the time, and I…”_

_“And you bought me Turkish poached eggs,” Bond finished for him, amused, in spite of himself, in spite of that cynical part inside of him that hissed at the tell and was reeling at how to better cover his habit next time._

_“Yes.” Ronson nodded jerkily, his hand reaching up to fidget with his tie and loosen it up. “I did.” He smiled sheepishly, and for a good looking Beta who is also a decent agent, he sure didn’t appear to be so confident… not in front of Bond anyway._

_And slowly, Bond smiled back, pulling out a chair and settling down to enjoy his meal. “Thank you,” he said and meant it._ )

Bond grunts, his body jumping just a little when Ronson’s thumb brushes over his nipple through the cotton material still covering his chest, but it’s the tender kisses that keep nipping at his lips and the corners of his mouth that have his heart racing, just a little.

“So you _were_ seducing me,” Bond murmurs, teasing as the heat of arousal blooms in his veins.

“Romancing, perhaps,” Ronson amends unashamedly and starts on undoing the buttons on Bond’s shirt. “I just—” he grinds their erections together, eliciting moans from both of them. “—I didn’t think I would kiss you like that.”

Their eyes meet, and in the dim yellow light of the room, Ronson’s dilated pupils are almost consuming, his pheromones like gossamer spinning veils around them. “What changed your mind, then?” Bond asks, voice dropping to a deep husk from the _needs_ and _wants_ rushing under his skin.

“My self-control apparently isn’t as firm as I thought it was.” The quirk of his smile is cheeky, but nothing that doesn’t spur on Bond’s exploring hands as he pulls their bodies closer to one another. “But here you are, responding to me.”

There’s a touch of awe laced in the undercurrent of those words that has Bond tilting his head to the side a little. “And you thought I wouldn’t?”

“I didn’t know what to expect, really.” The confession comes out like stone skipping over the cool surface of a lake, and it dawns upon Bond, a sudden realization slotting into place like a missing piece in a jigsaw puzzle, that he himself is the root cause of all this uneasiness from Ronson.

( _Sometimes, Bond thinks that he’s worn the smooth glass of bejeweled mask for so long that he doesn’t notice it anymore—doesn’t notice its dead weight, doesn’t notice the effects it has on other people… doesn’t register that it’s suffocated him to the point where he now can’t really tell where the guise ends and he begins._ )

“Because I’m a dangerous man?” Bond replies, and it isn’t so much a question as it is a matter-of-fact statement.

_(Perhaps it’s him that is the problem. The him that is forever either running away or hiding in the half crumbling dark tunnels of that long-forgotten place, thinking that it will hurt much less as long as it’s not really him who’s taking on all the pain._ )

_(Lies. All lies.)_

“No.” Ronson shakes his head, his voice a fervent whisper burning with conviction… as though he actually believes it, even as he says, “Because you’re beautiful,” like it’s all the explanation Bond needs to understand.

He doesn’t. Not really.

But the strong grips Ronson has on his hips are pinning him to the _here_ and _now_ , and Bond tells himself that maybe, just for a while, he can go along with it.

“What about now?” Bond asks; his smile looks like a challenge, and his nerve ends sing when Ronson leans in, hot breaths dancing along the sensitive patch of skin between the hollow of Bond’s throat and his bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Now?” Ronson’s voice is almost a deep purr in the well of his chest, deep and throaty and going straight to Bond’s cock. “Now, we’re going to enjoy ourselves.”

Bond grins. “Good.”

 

 

 

In the lingering darkness of the night, the tips of Ronson’s fingers brushing over his cheek feel like silent promises of dreams untold, and Bond finds himself leaning into the subtle rhythm of them as they nuzzle softly against the shell of his ears, nosing down along the pulse point in his neck.

Contentment swells like an unexpected tide in the pit of his stomach, and as Bond’s eyes flutter shut, he finds that he doesn’t really mind it at all.

In the morning, he will wake in the cool sunlight of early morning and spend a minute or two recollecting the events of last night, watching Ronson sleep soundly beside him, fearless, as though they both don’t know Bond is a government-licensed killer who has sown destruction and wreaked chaos more times than he himself has been destroyed.

Bond will watch, the ghost of a feeling haunting the cavity of his chest as the memory of tender touches swaddles around him like weightless cotton, before slipping quietly out of bed to head for the shower, hoping the cooling sprays will clear his mind.

Ronson will have awoken by the time he emerges.

“Hey,” Bond will start first this time, a small smile unbidden on his lips when Ronson looks blearily over, open and receptive in a way that is no longer even within Bond’s frame of imagined capabilities—hasn’t been for a very long time.

“Hey.” Ronson will smile back at him, motioning to get up. “Let me shower, too.”

He’ll come back to see Bond already dressed in his suit for the day, grey with a matching tie, cufflinks on with his watch strapped to the wrist and gleaming cold from where it peeks out under his crisp white shirt. And in that fraction of a second, Bond thinks he sees a flash of wistfulness in Ronson’s eyes, but it will dissipate too quickly without a trace for Bond to be sure of it.

“Breakfast?” Ronson will offer, the warming light of day filtering through the windows reflecting a near shimmering glow on the beads of water still there on his skin, and Bond thinks that Ronson is beautiful, too, even if he only seems to be half aware of it.

“Romancing me with food again?” will be Bond’s reply, and subtly, Ronson is relaxing again, the slight tension in his shoulders loosening with another grin gracing his expression.

“As long as you are obliged.”

They will kiss, and for all the meticulousness that Bond operates on, he doesn’t think he minds his suit getting a little damp, not when the heat of Ronson’s body is pressed against him, their hands brushing from palms to fingers, and _there_ , just right beneath Bond’s touch, is another beating heart.

 

 

 

( _Later, when the waves had washed him ashore, numb and at Death’s door, with the high blue sky perched above starting back down at him, all Bond could feel, despite the punctured cage of his chest still rattling from the shot that burst its confinement wide open earlier, was the blood of Ronson clinging to his hands—hot and sticky and dying…_

_Gone.)_

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [The End of Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sO-YTZC-KQ8) by Florence + The Machine


End file.
